


Hold Me Tight and Leave On the Light

by remiges



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Established Relationship, M/M, Proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: "Look, I don't want to stay married just because you think it'll hurt my feelings or something if you want a divorce," Claude says, too loud if the startled look they get from the woman refereeing her small children a table over is any indication.Marc can't tell if it's the lack of real coffee or just his hangover, but Claude has this way of getting under his skin like no one else. "I'm notpitymarrying you," he hisses, mindful of their audience. "Iloveyou. Asshole."





	Hold Me Tight and Leave On the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeswayappianway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeswayappianway/gifts).



> *loads fic into confetti cannon* *lights fuse* I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Title from [You Make Me Feel Like Dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LcNTjp_zshc) by Leo Sayer. Some minor liberties have been taken re: getting married in Vegas.

The first time Marc wakes up, it's six in the morning and he has to piss like a racehorse. 

He bumps into something in the semi-dark, and it takes him a long minute to connect the floating green numbers with 'microwave' and the strangeness of having a microwave in his bedroom to 'hotel.' There's a door to the left that looks either like a closet or the bathroom though, so he doesn't concern himself too much.

He's pretty sure he's still drunk. It wouldn't surprise him, at least. 

"Weird," he says to the wet shirt and pants he finds slung haphazardly over the shower rod in the bathroom. There's an undershirt crumpled over the edge of the tub, a casualty to gravity. He stares at it as he takes care of business, then stumbles back to bed without washing his hands. 

He thinks he should have noticed before, but there's someone already _in_ bed. Claude, if the hair and the freckles and the way he grunts when Marc knees him getting back to his side of the bed is any indication. 

"Hogging the covers," Marc mutters, pulling at them until Claude shifts and bats ineffectively at him, and Marc allows himself to be rolled over and spooned. It's warmer than the blankets would have been, even if Claude always kicks in his sleep, and Marc falls asleep between one breath and the next. 

***

The next time he wakes up, it's to Claude shaking his shoulder. Marc opens his eyes just far enough to catch the Vegas sunlight streaming through the windows—and why hadn't they closed the curtains last night?—and pulls a pillow over his head with a groan.

"Marc," Claude is saying. "Marc. Marc- _Andre_." 

"Fuck," Marc moans. "I told you no shots. I _told_ you." They'd been celebrating the end of the season, or drinking away their sorrows, however you wanted to look at it. He remembers neon colored drinks and trying to get Claude to order the froofiest thing on the menu, then drinking it himself when Claude wouldn't, and that's when the night starts to blur. 

"Marc, I'm serious," Claude says. "I think—I think we got married last night," and Marc finally pulls the pillow off his face. Claude is just in boxer briefs for some reason, and he's got glitter all down one side. It sparkles gold and purple in the light. 

"Where are your clothes?" Marc asks, squinting. He's pretty sure they didn't have sex last night, or if they did he'd put his own clothes back on for some reason. He's never been any good at getting it up when drunk, anyway. 

" _Married_ ," Claude stresses, waving a piece of paper at him. 

Marc props himself up on an arm and takes it. There's a headache blooming behind his eyes and it's too bright in the room, but he reads enough to figure out what it is. Those are definitely their signatures at the bottom. Claude had even put a little 28 on his, like he was signing it for a fan or something. 

Married. Okay. 

If this was a hookup, it'd be a no-brainer. If he'd gotten married to Tanger or Belly, someone he's fucked around with in the past, they'd get breakfast, flip a coin for whose lawyer they should call, and have the divorce papers signed by that afternoon. 

Claude is different. They live together, for one thing. 

"Huh," Marc says. He doesn't know what else he's supposed to say, though the way Claude is staring at him is making him feel like he's missed his line.

"Huh?" Claude parrots. " _Marc_." 

"We need food," Marc decides, dragging himself out of bed. The sheets are covered in glitter, and he has no idea where his shoes are, and he has _no idea_ what he and Claude got up to last night—besides the obvious—but he's pretty sure everything will make more sense with food and coffee. 

"I really need you to not ignore this," Claude says, sounding like he's teetering on the edge of deciding he's well and truly pissed off.

"I'm not," Marc says, putting the paper down on the bed and tugging Claude closer. "Come on, I'm not." The shock is starting to sink in, leaving a tangle of emotions behind, but Claude's skin is warm under his hand. He doesn't fight when Marc drops his head to his shoulder and slides an arm around his waist, so Marc figures they're still okay. 

"I just need some coffee, my head is killing me," he tells Claude's neck. "We'll figure this out, okay? Just, coffee first." 

"Okay," Claude says, blowing out a breath. "Okay, fine. We'll get breakfast." 

"You'll need some clothes first, though," Marc points out, pinching the soft skin at Claude's belly. Then he kisses his neck, because it seems like Claude needs it, and if he doesn't, Marc does. 

"Yeah," Claude sighs. He pets Marc's hair for a minute. Then, as if coming to some sort of realization, says, "Wait, where the fuck are my clothes?" 

***

Marc doesn't know why they'd ended up in a hotel instead of at the _house Marc owns,_ but if he had to guess, it had something to do with it being on the other side of the city and wanting to get Claude in bed as soon as possible. That, or he'd been so drunk he couldn't remember his address, which was also a possibility. 

Downstairs, the dining room is out of regular coffee and the hot water thermos is dispensing cold water, so Marc is stuck with decaf and feeling distinctly put out about it. Claude is wearing his still damp clothes from the bathroom, and Marc thinks if they'd been smarter they would have just ordered room service. 

Marc tries some of his hash browns and decides they aren't that bad for hotel food, just a little bland. Claude has a waffle he's slathered with a mountain of butter packets and three things of fake maple syrup, which is how Marc knows he's stressing. He hates fake maple syrup.

"It's real?" Marc asks, pouring ketchup on his reconstituted eggs. Claude doesn't even make fun of him for it, which is how Marc knows it's real, but he still feels like he should ask. 

"Yeah. I mean, we can have our lawyers or agents or whoever look at it, but it looks real. I don't know why we'd have a fake copy of a marriage certificate." 

"Okay," Marc nods. The table next to theirs is full of boisterous young women in snapbacks who are just finishing up, and Marc wraps his hands around his lukewarm mug and waits for them to finish clearing out. It looks like Claude has the same idea, because he chops up his waffle into minuscule pieces instead of saying anything more. 

By the time the group is gone, their raised voices echoing in the hallway, Claude takes a visible breath. "Have you ever thought about it?" he asks, staring at where he's pushing his dissected waffle around, and Marc feels his heart stutter. He doesn't have any evidence, but he suddenly knows in his bones that Claude has a ring. Maybe stuffed in the back of his sock drawer or tucked in a suit pocket in the closet, but he has a ring. 

"No," Marc says, mouth dry. 

Claude nods, still without looking up, and Marc listens to the rasp of his fork tines on the plate while he tries to figure out what else to say. 

"That doesn't mean—" he finally dredges up at the same time that Claude says, "Okay, so we can—" 

They stop, and Claude gestures for him to go first. 

"That doesn't mean I'm not thinking about it now," Marc says. 

Claude gives him a deeply skeptical look. "Just like that?

Marc might not have thought about it before, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't have said yes if Claude had asked. 

"I mean, I know it's not really the most…" He searches for the word he wants and settles on, "dignified. Like this. But…" He trails off as Claude sighs. "What?" 

"Look, I don't want to stay married just because you think it'll hurt my feelings or something if you want a divorce," Claude says, too loud if the startled look they get from the woman refereeing her small children a table over is any indication. 

Marc can't tell if it's the lack of real coffee or just his hangover, but Claude has this way of getting under his skin like no one else. "I'm not _pity_ marrying you," he hisses, mindful of their audience. "I _love_ you. Asshole." Somehow that breaks the weird atmosphere between them and Claude huffs out a laugh, the tension Marc hadn't even realized he'd been carrying bleeding out of him. 

"I love you," Marc repeats, softer this time. He shrugs, feeling suddenly helpless. "I don't really see that changing any time soon. I know we haven't talked about this, and if you want to get divorced we can do that. It doesn't have to mean anything—" though Marc thinks it probably will, one way or another, "—but if you wanted to do it right or whatever, we could do that."

"Do it right?" Claude asks. 

"Come on," Marc sighs. "Don't play dumb. I'm just saying we don't… have to." He feels the words out as he says them. "We could stay married. It's not like this changes that much. And maybe… get married later."

Claude taps out a quick rhythm on the table. "Get married later," he says, looking like he's trying to suppress a smile. 

"Are you just going to keep repeating everything I say? Yes, married later, ceremony, rings, whatever. We could—we could get married." Saying the last part feels like a revelation—exhilarating and shocking and somehow mundane all at the same time, no matter that they're already married. 

Claude looks him over for a long minute, like he's evaluating something, but Marc doesn't know what. Finally he nods. He's got glitter on his chin and sleep at the corner of an eye, and there's a giddy sensation that feels a lot like hope rising in Marc's stomach. He thinks maybe it should be more monumental than this, but, well. They did just get hitched by a priest who may or may not have been dressed like Elvis, knowing Vegas. 

"Okay," Claude says. "We'll get married. Again." He nods once, like that settles it, and finally starts eating his waffle. He keeps sneaking little glances at Marc while he does though, and Marc isn't surprised when he reaches for his hand. 

Claude's fingers are a little sticky, and Marc can't really eat his eggs left-handed without making a mess, but he can't find it in himself to care. 

"We're going to have to tell our parents, you know," he says, and Claude groans. 

"I know, don't remind me. Can't we just…" he drops his gaze to their joined hands, to where Marc's thumb is rubbing over a knuckle. "Can't we just leave it for a bit?" 

Marc thinks about what their parents are going to say, and their friends, and it's not that it's too soon to tell them, but it doesn't quite feel real right now. It's like he and Claude are in a bubble, and if they move too fast they might pop it. And he doesn't want to stay removed from the world forever, but a couple of hours won't hurt. 

"We're supposed to be getting dinner with Sid and Tanger tonight," Marc reminds him. "How about until then?" They're in town for someone's wedding, along with a couple of other Pens' guys. Marc can't say the irony is lost on him.

"Fine," Claude says, squeezing his hand before letting go and going back to his waffle mush. 

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of the news drifting quietly across the room. Marc's headache is still there, but at least he's got food in his stomach, and he's got Claude with him. He's going to have Claude for a long time. 

"Hey," he says, nudging the table leg with his foot before finding Claude. "Want to have married sex?" 

Claude visibly considers it for long enough to be slightly offensive, then filches the raspberry off the top of Marc's pastry before Marc can stop him. "Fine, but only if we don't rock the bed too much. I'm still hungover as fuck, I might throw up on you." 

Whoever said time took the romance out of relationships, Marc thinks, obviously had no idea what they were talking about. 

***

Claude doesn't end up throwing up, but he does spend some time retching in the toilet bowl while Marc alternatively rubs his back and laughs at him. 

"I can still give you a handie," Claude says, looking rather pale as Marc hands him a cup of water. 

"Thanks," Marc says, dry as dust. "I think I'll pass, though, tempting as that is." They hadn't actually gotten that far before Claude had made his dash for the bathroom. 

Claude shrugs and puts his head back down on the edge of the toilet. "Don't say I didn't offer." 

He stays on the tiled floor of the bathroom for a while, but the worst of the nausea seems to have passed. Claude makes him run down to reception for a toothbrush, then to the hotel shop for tea, and Marc does, even though he's half sure it's payback for laughing at him. They end up back in bed, but Marc doesn't feel like trying for married sex again, just in case. 

"Hey. You're sure about this?" Claude asks later, the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the sheer curtain. He'd been lying on his back, but Marc had known he wasn't sleeping. He rolls over now, their faces close like this, knees tucked together, and Marc does him the courtesy of actually thinking about it.

He knows marriage isn't everything, doesn't make a relationship any more real than a couple who never takes that step. People live their lives as partners or boyfriends and never sign any paper or speak vows in front of witnesses, never have ceremonies or walk down an aisle or kiss in front of god and family. They don't love each other any less. He and Claude could get a divorce and go right back to how things were, settled and easy. It wouldn't mean anything. Marriage didn't _matter_. 

Except it did. It mattered to him. 

He hadn't thought it would, but marriage was… big. It wasn't just love, wasn't just friendship and good sex and a phone call in the middle of the night when everything was going wrong. Oh, it was all of those as well, but it was also partnership. Loyalty. A person who put you first while you put them first. 

It was team. And Marc knew from team. 

"I'm sure," he says into the still of the afternoon as the sound of their neighbors watching some unintelligible action movie filters through the wall in muted explosions and the dull thudding of gunfire. 

"Okay," Claude says, and brushes Marc's hair off his forehead. They're close enough that Marc can see where Claude's eyelashes lighten as they get closer to the root, delicate and golden. 

"Do you have a date in mind?" 

Claude shrugs. "Not really. I mean, summer is nice, but this wasn't really what I had in mind." He smiles, crooked and real. "I'm open to suggestions." 

***

Marc naps on and off for an hour or so, and every time he wakes up, Claude is still there, an uncomfortably warm weight draped over his back. Marc's sweating enough that he's going to have to take another shower, but it feels nice. 

Maybe too nice. Claude's hangover is mostly gone by the time he wakes up, and he proves it by sucking Marc off, slow enough to tease, and Marc returns the favor. By the time they've picked up Claude's car from the bar they'd started at yesterday, they're verging on late-late instead of just late to meet Sid and Tanger, and then Claude ditches him outside of the restaurant to take a call from Wayne. 

It's not that Marc begrudges him talking to his friends, just that he doesn't think it's a coincidence he's the one breaking the news of their marriage here. 

"Hey," Sid says when Marc gets back to their table. "We were just about to send out a search party." 

"Yeah, where's your other half?" Tanger asks. 

"Phone call, he'll be in in just a minute," Marc says, sitting down on Sid's side of the booth and nudging Tanger's foot under the table. "I see you started without us, so what's good here?" 

Sid and Tanger had opted for burgers, so that's what Marc orders. He gets tea for Claude and a water for himself because it's going to be a while before he wants another drink, then waits for the small talk to die down. He takes a breath. And he spits it out.

"So, Claude and I got married last night," he says, playing with his napkin. It's not that he's ashamed, but it's not the most responsible thing to admit to, even if he hasn't mentioned the amount of alcohol involved yet. 

Checking Sid and Tanger's reactions, though, they don't actually seem that surprised. Marc would probably be more annoyed about that if he didn't know they thought it was a prank. 

"Come on, do something original," Tanger complains. "Rusty and Murr did that one last year, and they didn't forget the rings." 

Marc thinks Claude might still have the fake gold vending machine ring they'd knocked off his side of the bedside table when Marc had gotten a little too enthusiastic blowing him, but that's not really the point. 

"They didn't forget the rings, but did they forget the marriage certificate? Because that's what we have." 

Sid is watching him closely. "Come on, be serious." 

"I _am_ being serious," Marc stresses. "We were drunk. We woke up with a marriage certificate. It's real, it's got our signatures on it, I'll swear on whatever you want me to." 

That seems to convince them. Tanger sits back in his seat, and Sid runs a hand through his hair. 

"Fuck," Tanger says eloquently. "What did your agent say when you told him?" 

"That we should have held our liquor better," Marc says truthfully, because he had. They weren't stupid enough not to tell their agents, not when something like this probably wouldn't stay quiet for long. Being out and being married were two different things. 

"Who else knows?" Sid asks. "What are you going to do?" 

"Just you so far, and probably Simmonds by now. And we're staying married," he says. "We're not getting divorced." 

Tanger and Sid exchange a look. 

"Have you… thought about this?" Sid asks with the diplomacy Marc remembers from his time with the Pens. Still, that doesn't mean he particularly appreciates it. 

"Have I thought about who I want to hitch my life to?" he asks pointedly. "Who I want to live with, and share with, and…" He trails off, thinking about the first time Claude had given him a key to his place, and how all of Marc's suitcases look in the hall when he heads back to Philly for the summer. "Yeah," he says, smiling slightly as he looks at the lemon wedge he'd pushed to the bottom of his glass of water. "I have." 

"Jesus, you two are sappy," Tanger mutters. "What the fuck are you going to tell your parents?" He waves behind Marc at Claude, who'd just walked in, and that's the other thing. It's not that Marc's parents didn't know he and Claude were together—that's pretty hard to miss—and Marc can't see them being surprised at getting married. It's just, the _married in Vegas while drunk_ part is probably less of a problem than _got married and didn't invite them._

Still, he can make it sound better than it actually was, though he has a feeling he's going to be hearing about this for the rest of his life. 

"I don't know, say something about doves," Marc says, shrugging. "We'll just make it up, make it romantic." 

"Doves?" Claude says from over his shoulder, sounding affronted. He crams himself into Marc's side of the booth, forcing Sid to scoot around the U-shaped bench. "You wanted to propose with birds crapping on me?" 

"What, you have a better idea?" Marc asks. Claude doesn't look upset, so the conversation with Wayne must have gone well. 

"I don't see how anything could be worse than doves. And why are you the one proposing?" 

"You were the one with the ring, weren't you?" Marc says, and Claude scowls.

"You probably lost mine. Anyway, my proposal was better." 

Marc stares at him for a minute. "You can't remember," he points out. "And _I_ can't remember, and somehow you're the one who has the better proposal?" 

Sid and Tanger are watching them across the table like they're a particularly interesting comedy duo.

"Obviously," Claude sniffs. "Mine wouldn't have involved _doves_." Their waitress drops off their food, and he steals a couple of onion rings off Marc's plate, even though Marc had ordered him the same thing. 

Marc changes tactics. 

"What if I wanted to propose?" he asks. "When we tell people, since I don't think you're telling the truth to your parents." 

"You said—" Claude shoots a look across the table at their audience and visibly reconsiders what he'd been going to say. 

"I know what I said," Marc says, gesturing to encompass their whole breakfast conversation, "but that doesn't mean..." 

They lock eyes, and it's not that Marc wants to steal Claude's spotlight. He's still convinced he's got a ring, and he doesn't want to take away from whatever Claude had planned, and it's not that he thinks getting proposed to is somehow emasculating. But he also… he wants to do something to convince Claude this hadn't been a drunken mistake. Claude likes big gestures, and Marc wants to do this right.

"Why don't you both propose?" Sid interrupts. "I mean, you're both going to say yes, right? Just propose twice." 

Claude looks like he wants to argue on principle, however much he and Sid have mellowed out, but he doesn't. "What do you think?" he says, turning to Marc. 

"We could pick a date," Marc says, considering the idea out loud. "We could both propose and maybe… throw a party or something, afterwards. That might be nice." 

"Fine by me," Claude says. He reaches out and absently tucks a piece of Marc's hair behind his ear, then starts in on his burger. There was a time he would have stopped himself before he did that, especially in front of Marc's friends, but not anymore. 

"So what _do_ you remember?" Tanger asks, leaning forward. "Did you get hitched by Elvis? Were there showgirls?" and the conversation devolves into exactly how drunk they'd been. It moves on from there to trash talk about who's going to have the better proposal, the renovations Sid is doing, and gossip from around the league. 

All in all, it's a pretty good dinner. 

As they're getting ready to go their separate ways, the bill paid and everyone congregating in the parking lot, Tanger says, "Hey, congratulations. Sorry, I should have said so earlier." He pulls Marc in for a quick hug, then Claude, which surprises Claude if the look on his face is any indication. 

"Yeah, congratulations," Sid echoes, hugging Marc. Claude gets more of a bro-y backslap, which Marc thinks they're both happy with. "Married, huh?" he says, a wry look on his face. 

"Looks like it," Marc says, struck again by how quickly things have changed. Yesterday it was just him and Claude, and now it's him, Claude, and a marriage certificate. _Married_. "Take care getting back, and tell the rest of the guys hi when you see them."

"Tell them yourself," Tanger says, "I'm not your messenger," but there's not much heat behind it.

They finish saying their goodbyes, since Claude and Marc are supposed to be packing up some of Marc's stuff to take back to Philly, and wave as Sid and Tanger drive away. 

"See, that went well," Marc tells Claude, nudging him in the side as the taillights blend in with the rest of the cars. Not that he'd thought it wouldn't, but he has to admit that the possibility had crossed his mind. Sid had seemed a bit off, but that's something he can worry about later. 

It looks like Claude tries to smile and grimace at the same time. "Yeah, but just wait. We still have to tell your mother." 

***

It doesn't really change anything. 

Marc had thought being married would feel different, somehow. That _he_ would feel different, but he doesn't. They already live together in the offseason, already have their usual rhythms and their compromises and their idiosyncrasies. He knows Claude's most annoying habits and sweetest pet names, and Claude knows which buttons he can push to make Marc laugh and which ones will start a blow-out fight. They've fit together for so long that Marc forgets sometimes there once was a time he didn't know how Claude took his eggs, or how sensitive he got after coming, or how fastidious he was about taking his shoes off inside. 

Marc can remember not loving Claude, but he usually doesn't. Thinking about it now, he's not sure how marriage had never come up before, even with their public lives and the two-thousand miles that separate them when hockey begins. 

Really, the only thing that changes after that night is that the fake gold vending machine ring ends up on Claude's bedside table. Marc notices it one day when he's hunting for his favorite cufflinks a week after they get back to Philly. He hadn't known Claude had kept it, but it's surprisingly sweet. 

Claude won't let him see the ring he's going to propose with, but apparently it's silver. Marc had asked, because when he'd gone to pick out a ring for Claude he'd wanted them to at least match in color. He'd gotten a couple of chains, too, in case Claude wants to wear his while he plays. Marc doesn't know if he will or not, but he likes having the option. 

That's where Marc is returning from when he gets back and finds Claude sitting in the middle of the living room floor, apparently rearranging their CD collection if the stacks of jewel cases around him are any indication.

"Oh hey, you're home," Claude says, tipping his head back. He reaches out and pats Marc on the knee as he walks up, then goes back to what he'd been doing. "Out hiring a skywriter?" 

Marc had thought about it, but he's not about to tell Claude that. "Nah," he says. "Just picking what cake I want to jump out of. How do you feel about chocolate icing?" 

"Just as long as there are no flash mobs," Claude says absently, thumbing through Marc's side of the CD's. He's messing it all up, arranging things by genre instead of alphabetically, and Marc's going to have to go through later and put everything back where it should go. 

"No roses, then," he says, and is met with a withering look. It's not Claude's best work, but Marc can see he's distracted with misfiling Bruce Springsteen with Journey. 

"Like I would," Claude mutters, but Marc is on to him. He'll take whatever bouquets the florist puts together, but he's drawing the line at roses. 

They've decided on a date for their engagement-slash-wedding party, which is more of an excuse to get together with their friends during the summer than anything formal. Still, maybe once they've had it Marc will quit getting ribbed by all of his teammates, past and present. That's his hope, anyway. Maybe not a _realistic_ hope, but a hope nonetheless.

That also means they have a date for when they need to propose by, which… Marc wouldn't say has gotten out of _hand_ , but he's pretty sure most proposals don't involve as much trash talking as theirs do. Not that most people _both_ propose, but he and Claude are hyper-competitive like pretty much everyone in their line of work, and it's bled over into this. 

Marc's going to win. Obviously. 

"There's takeout in the fridge, I didn't feel like cooking," Claude says. "Yours should be the one on the left, mine has the broccoli." 

"Did you not eat without me?" Marc asks, heading to the kitchen. He pulls the takeout containers from the fridge, and sure enough, Claude's usual order from the Thai restaurant they like is still full. 

"I wasn't hungry," Claude says, taking the fork Marc hands him and digging in to his container with a gusto that gives lie to his words. Marc sits down cross-legged next to him and tucks in. Claude hadn't remembered to order extra hot sauce, but it's still his favorite thing on the menu.

"Hey, we could listen to something together," Marc says as they finish up, glancing at the CD's on the floor. "We haven't done that in a while." 

Claude must know what he's getting at, because he groans, not entirely theatrically. "Come on, no, no Springsteen." 

"I'll blow you," Marc bargains. 

"You'll blow me anyway," Claude says, unmoved. 

"I'll let you pick the album," he tries, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Claude laughs in his face. "That's still Springsteen!"

Claude's eyes are bright and his cheeks are flushed and he has terrible taste in music, and Marc loves him. He loves him. It's not like it's some big revelation, but sometimes it hits him all over again, this life he'd… not stumbled into, but built, with care and patience and hard work. With help. 

"What?" Claude asks, smile fading slightly at whatever look is on Marc's face.

"Nothing," Marc says, a lump in his throat. They're already married, technically, but he's thinking about it now: walking down an aisle and holding Claude's hand and exchanging rings. He's thinking about a ceremony he gets to _remember_. 

Claude just looks at him for a minute before he sighs, too heavily to be entirely real. "Well, if you're going to be like that, I _suppose_ —" He holds up a finger when Marc opens his mouth. "I _suppose_ I can let you blow me. But only if you make it good. Like, that one beach in Cancún good."

"I'm going to blow your mind, since when do I not?" Marc asks, his voice coming out too rough before he clears it. "I don't suppose you have a preference for album?" 

"Just stick one in," Claude tells him, popping the button on his jeans. "This dick isn't going to suck itself." 

"'Stick one in,'" Marc repeats, unable to let that one go as he loads a CD into the player. "Your dirty talk could use some work," and crawls over to kiss Claude before he can start slandering Bruce Springsteen again. 

***

They go on like that. Claude does a photo shoot for the Flyers' calendar, and Marc tries his hand at keeping a bunch of herbs in pots alive, and they attend a couple of weddings together, pretty much the same as they do every summer. They don't talk about their upcoming proposals overly much, or their own marriage, but Marc can feel the space where it sits between them—comfortable and warm and rich with the promise of the future. 

***

"I lost my ring," is the first thing Claude says when Marc picks up the phone on the day of their engagement party. 

" _My_ ring, you mean?" Marc says, flipping through one of Claude's dog magazines at the kitchen island. He'd been expecting something like this, a bit of last minute sabotage to make things interesting.

"No, not—listen, can you just come over here? I need a wire coat hanger or something, something long." 

"I have the number of this lady who makes rings if you're desperate." If there really was a need for another ring. "Do you want me to call her, or—"

" _Marc_ ," Claude interrupts, and that's when Marc finally puts the magazine down and starts paying attention, because that isn't Claude playing, that's Claude when he's actually upset. 

"What do you need?" he asks, and Claude gives him an address. 

When Marc turns into the parking lot and finds it's actually a church, there's a minute where he thinks that maybe Claude is a better actor than he'd given him credit for. Maybe he's going for a surprise proposal. Then he catches sight of him pacing, and Marc's newfound conviction fades away again. 

He parks by Claude's car, and Claude is waiting for him when he turns the engine off and opens the door. 

"Hey," Marc says. Claude's hair is messed up like he's been running his fingers through it, and there's grit on the knees of his pants. He looks like a right mess, but Marc's not going to mention it. 

"Wire hangers," is the first thing out of Claude's mouth. 

"In the trunk," Marc tells him, popping it and looking around. "What—"

"It's stupid," Claude says, grabbing a hanger and starting to unwind it. "It was in my pocket and I was getting out my keys and dropped it, and it went right down the grate." He gestures, and Marc walks over there to see for himself. 

There's a storm drain set into the asphalt ten feet away from Claude's car—the bars heavy iron arranged in a grid pattern—and it takes him a minute to spot the ring. The ones they have are silver, but there's no hint of silver down in the hole. There is, however, gold. 

"Claude," Marc says, feeling the need to point out the obvious even though Claude must already know, "that's the ring from—" 

"Don't," Claude says, sounding stressed and frustrated. "Just don't," and Marc doesn't. 

The vending machine ring sits at the bottom of the drain, along with wet leaves and various bits of debris. It's not too far of a drop down there, which is lucky. Marc doesn't relish the thought of having to twist two hangers together to reach it. 

"Okay," he says, adjusting the curve at the end of the hanger as an excuse to take it from Claude. He's pretty sure he has the steadier hands out of the two of them, and he's not planning on giving Claude room to argue. "Here, do you want to use your phone as a light?" It's bright enough that Marc doesn't technically need it, but it'll give Claude something to do. "This shouldn't be too hard." 

It is.

The problem is that the ring is flimsy and thin, and they can't get the hanger to hook it. There's not enough room between the bars of the grate to really maneuver around, and any dexterity is severely impeded by the hanger's length. Marc tries, and then Claude tries, and then Marc tries again, but all they manage to accomplish is scooting the ring across the gunk and leaves at the bottom. If they had something to push it up against so it would flip on its side they could snag it that way, but there isn't, and Marc doesn't want to push it too far and lose it. 

"What do you even _need_ this one for?" Marc asks eventually. His knees are beginning to hurt from kneeling on the rutted asphalt, and there's a headache starting to bloom behind his eyes. "I'll buy you another ring. We've _got_ rings already." 

"It's the one you proposed with," Claude snaps. "Sorry if I don't want to lose it." He kicks a rock and turns away, walks over to the island of grass in the parking lot. Marc watches him put his hands on his hips and stare up at the scraggly tree planted there, and pushes down his own frustration. 

He gives Claude a minute, takes a couple of deep breaths, then puts the hanger down and goes after him. 

Claude doesn't look over at him, but Marc knows he knows he's there. They spend a bit looking at the tree, stunted and ragged as it is. It's got a guard around it to keep animals from chewing on the bark, though that doesn't seem to be doing it much good. 

"Do you want me to run to the store, see if I can find some sort of grabber?" Marc asks. "It'd probably be easier than the hanger." They probably should have done that from the start, but it's not like either of them have a lot of experience fishing things out of drains. 

"No. It's stupid, it doesn't matter," Claude says. He scrubs at his face with his hands, still not looking over at Marc, and Marc hates that. He hates when Claude hides from him. 

"When was the last time you ate?" Claude shrugs, which probably means he'd skipped breakfast, and possibly lunch. "Alright, stay here," Marc tells him, like there's anywhere else to go, then heads to his car.

There's nothing in the glovebox or the console, but Marc has more luck in Claude's car. He finds a bruised banana stuck in a cup holder, and steals a couple of Claude's aspirin and swallows them dry while he's there. The banana's a little soft, but he gets it started by biting the top, then walks back to the island. 

"Sit down, commune with nature, eat the banana," Marc commands, handing it to him. "I'm going to try one more time." Claude opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but Marc isn't in the mood. "Sit," he says, pointing. "Eat," and Claude scowls, but he does it. 

Marc gives him a minute before he walks back over to the grate and cracks his knuckles, then gets to work. 

By the time Claude comes over, Marc has managed to get the ring snared by a combination of physics, luck, and cursing god. He'd thought he'd pushed it too far out of reach for one heart-stopping minute, but he'd managed to get it back. 

"Oh thank god," Claude breathes as Marc pulls the hanger out of the grate, ring dangling at the curve on the end. Claude carefully plucks it off when it's safely over the asphalt, which Marc appreciates. If that ring ends up down the grate again, he's going to find an arc welder and take the damn bars off himself. 

"I got it," Marc says redundantly, putting the stupid hanger down. Claude hands him the banana, which he's only eaten two-thirds of for some reason, then starts wiping the ring off on the hem of his shirt. 

"Thanks," Claude says again, glancing up at him. 

"That's why you keep me around," Marc says automatically, but he's watching Claude clean drain gunk off the plastic. 

They have rings. They have _nice_ rings. But this is apparently the one Claude's been carrying around with him. 

"Are you not going to eat that?" Claude asks, nodding at the banana. "I saved it for you, it's not half bad," and Marc gives up and sits down to eat warm banana mush while Claude wipes off the ring. 

"Hey, why didn't you tell me you remembered that night?" he finally asks when Claude sits down next to him against the side of Marc's car. What Marc remembers is mostly Claude elbowing him incessantly when he couldn't stop laughing and the spray of color across one of the fountains, but that's about it. The actual wedding is a blur, though he distinctly remembers trying to put the keycard to their room into the card reader upside down. 

"I don't know," Claude says. He slumps further back against the car. "I mean, I didn't remember at first. I still don't, really." He falls silent, but Marc waits him out. When Claude starts talking again, it's quieter. 

"You said you'd never thought about it," he says. "And I was going to ask, and then this happened. And I know you said you didn't want to get divorced, but I just… I just want to make sure that we're not moving too fast. That you actually want this instead of going along because we were drunk and stupid and… I don't know. I don't want to wake up five years from now and realize we fucked it up when we should have gotten divorced or whatever and gone at it the right way." 

He blows out a breath, thumbs the ring and palms it again. When it's clear that he's done, Marc reaches out and touches his arm to get his attention. 

"Claude, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I'm not stupid. I know what I want. If I thought this was a mistake, I would have said something. And if _you_ think this is a mistake then you need to tell me, because I'm not changing my mind."

"I don't," Claude says. "I'm not." 

"Okay," Marc says, but he knows what it sounds like when Claude's holding something back. "What else?" 

Claude sighs and rubs at his forehead with the heel of his palm. "It's this proposal," he admits. "It's not that I'm changing my mind, I just—" he stops. "It's not as fun anymore. It was at first, but not now." 

Not with a deadline, Marc thinks he means. Not with how they'd turned it into a competition. That probably hadn't been their smartest idea. They don't need a lot of normalcy, but maybe they need it here.

"Alright, so we'll call off the engagement party," Marc says, nudging their knees together. "You've already got one proposal, apparently. I can wait. We can pig out on finger food or whatever with our friends. Fuck, we don't even have to show up if we don't want to. They didn't even get us wedding presents, those cheapskates." 

He puts an arm around Claude's shoulders, elbow bumping into the side of the car, and Claude scoots closer so he doesn't have to reach so far. There are sparrows flying in and out of the tree on the island, squabbling, and he and Claude watch them in companionable silence as the sound of distant traffic rolls over them. 

"Hey, Marc-Andre?" Claude finally says, looking over at him. "I'm really glad I married you. Marry me again?"

He holds out his hand and there, nestled in his palm, is the ring they'd pulled out from the drain. 

The world slows down for a minute, and then Marc takes his arm back, because he thinks he's going to need it. He opens his mouth and the words, "Did you plan this?" come out, which isn't what he'd meant to say at all.

"You think I _planned_ this?" Claude asks, incredulous. "You think _this_ is all the better I can do? What, I thought 'You know what would be a great way to ask the person I love to spend the rest of their life with me?' and _this—_ " Claude waves at the parking lot and the storm drain and goes to close his hand, but Marc grabs at his fingers before the plastic shine of the ring can disappear. 

"Yes," Marc says. "Shut up. Yes. Obviously, yes." He can't stop smiling, finds he doesn't even care to try. 

Claude hesitates, then starts to smile back. He has dimples when he really gets going, and Marc thumbs at where they should be until Claude grins for real and ducks his head. 

"Yeah?" he asks, like he hadn't known what the answer would be all along, and Marc rolls his eyes and kisses him. They're both smiling too hard for it to be a good one, but Marc doesn't care. 

"Here, can I—?" Claude asks, gesturing at Marc's hand, and Marc gives it to him. Claude's hand is trembling as he tries to put the ring on, and the ring itself is slightly gritty. Marc tries not to imagine what might be on it. 

Either Claude has smaller fingers than him—unlikely, Marc fucking loves Claude's hands, he knows how big they are—or he'd never tried the ring on, because it doesn't fit. 

"This is the worst proposal ever," Marc tells him after a minute of Claude trying to force the ring past his second knuckle before he admits defeat and slides it on his pinky instead. 

"How would you know, you were blackout drunk for the last one," Claude says, and then he starts to laugh. Marc feels his mouth twitch, Claude's giddy mood suddenly infectious, and Claude gets out, "Neon _fucking_ shots," before Marc loses it. They sit in the parking lot, their laughter bouncing off the asphalt, and every time they catch each other's eyes it just comes rolling back over them. 

Claude winds down first, swiping at his eyes while Marc holds his stomach and snickers. "I told you we shouldn't have gotten shots," Marc tells him.

"Liar," Claude says, and it's not like Marc remembers enough of that night to contradict him. Instead, he holds out his hand and examines the picture it makes. The ring pinches a bit, but it's not cutting off his circulation. That's about all he can say about it. It doesn't look any more real than it had when he'd first seen it in that hotel room, and the fake gold is starting to wear off the band. Still, it's _his_. His and Claude's, if he really did propose with it. 

"I picked a good one, didn't I?" Marc asks, twisting his hand from side to side. There's nothing to really catch the light, but he's sure whatever ring Claude's got hidden away in his sock drawer will pick up the slack. 

"Yeah," Claude says, sounding strange. He pushes Marc's arm down, and then Marc has a lapful of Claude. It can't be comfortable on his knees with how he's straddling Marc's thighs, but it doesn't look like he cares.

"Thanks," he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Marc's eye, light and almost ticklish. 

"For saying yes?" Marc asks, bemused. He tucks his hands under the back of Claude's shirt and curls them around the warm skin at Claude's waist. 

"For showing up." 

Marc opens his mouth to say… something, but he can't find the words. Claude doesn't seem to need any input, though. He's kissing Marc's cheeks where his freckles come in during the summer, and Marc is helpless to do anything other than turn his head and catch his mouth with his own. 

They don't stay sweet for very long. Claude squirms on top of him when Marc deepens the kiss, and he scratches his fingernails through the hair at the base of Marc's neck. They make out like that for a while, the car solid behind Marc and Claude heavy in his lap. It's familiar, the way most things about Claude are now, and somehow that just makes it hotter. 

Marc is giving serious consideration to seeing if they can both fit in the back of Claude's car so he can blow him, when a siren sounds nearby and they both jump.

"Shit," Claude says, dropping his head to Marc's shoulder. He's half hard, but he doesn't make any move to pick up where they'd left off, just plants a kiss at the join of Marc's jaw and sits up. That's okay. They'll have plenty of time to continue this later with a bed and fewer chances for accidental exhibitionism. 

"Why are you here, anyway?" Marc asks, brushing back the tuft of hair that sits on Claude's receding hairline. He wants to pull, swallow the noises he makes, but resists the urge. 

Claude sits back on Marc's shins, then climbs off when Marc makes a face at him. "I'm not telling," he says primly. "Maybe you'll get to find out on the honeymoon." 

Marc thinks about that. "You didn't have a plan, did you? For proposing," he clarifies. 

"Yes I did," Claude insists. Marc spins the ring around his finger as much as he's able, and thinks about the phone calls Claude's been making and the way he'd gotten all secretive when Marc tried to use the punch card in Claude's wallet to get a free smoothie. His unimpressed face when Marc said no roses. 

"It involved flowers, didn't it?" he asks, starting to smile. 

Claude, conspicuously, doesn't say anything. 

"You're sweet," Marc tells him, cupping his cheek. Claude laughs and bats him away. 

"Fuck off." 

"My sweet husband," he continues, and Claude goes an interesting shade of pink. Marc files it away for later. 

"We should call people, let them know we're going to be late," Claude says, not so subtly changing the subject. Sure enough, when Marc checks his watch it's fifteen minutes past when they were supposed to show up at the reception hall where they're throwing the party. 

"You still want to do that?" Marc asks. He doesn't know why he'd been thinking that Claude wouldn't. 

"Yeah," Claude says with a crooked grin. "We came this far, didn't we? Let's celebrate," and Marc can't disagree with that logic. 

He'd been planning on taking Claude out for an early dinner down by the river before Claude had called. There are thawed peas in his backseat, since apparently bread isn't good for ducks, and Marc had put a ring box on Harvey's collar in preparation for when they came back home to change for the party. Still, it'll keep. Claude was always the most important part of the equation.

"Okay, I'll—" Marc pulls out his phone, only to find he has a missed voicemail from the band he'd hired, asking him to clarify directions because there's construction rerouting traffic. "I'll make sure the band shows up at the right place, sorry, they got lost," he says, only to be interrupted by Claude's groan. 

"Fuck, I told you no flash mobs!" he says. "Weren't you listening?" 

"They're not a flash mob, they're a band with portable instruments," Marc explains, and a good one at that. "Are you seriously telling me you don't know the difference?" 

Claude scowls. "I know the difference, I'm just not convinced it'll _be_ different." 

"I can't believe you _don't know the difference_ ," Marc says gleefully, already thinking about telling Tanger. Sometimes Claude can get Tanger to gang up with him, though, and Marc would rather not get dragged at his own party, so maybe he'll wait.

"It's not important," he adds hastily when Claude opens his mouth. "I'll get the music there, you call whoever. Make sure everyone shows up at the right place, because we'll be hearing about it if they don't." 

"You get the band, I get everything else?" Claude asks, phone already in hand. "That doesn't seem fair." 

Marc rolls his eyes and pulls Claude in for a quick kiss. "Call Wayne. Call Sid. Get a phone tree going." 

"Yeah, I guess we'd better," Claude says. He's acting like it's a chore, but the corner of his mouth is turned up, and Marc sees right through him. 

***

Their friends are already at the reception hall by the time Marc and Claude show up, half inside and half congregating in groups in the parking lot. Claude has just gotten dragged off by Coots and a couple of the younger Flyers when Sid appears. He takes one look at Marc and shakes his head. "Come on, you can't wear that. Switch with me." 

"I was going to change," Marc protests, because it's not like he'd been planning to wear a beater shirt to propose in, but it's what he'd had on when Claude called. He doesn't need fashion advice from Sid, either, but he still trades his tee for Sid's button-up when he takes it off. 

Sid's shirt doesn't really fit, since they have different builds, but it'll do. "I guess I should be glad it's not pants, huh?" Marc asks. 

"Yeah," Sid shrugs, "you definitely don't have the ass for it," then grins like he's just gotten one up on Marc. 

Marc realizes he's off a hole and focuses on re-buttoning, and when he looks back up again Sid is still smiling, but he seems more serious now. 

"You know, I don't understand anything about you two," Sid says, smoothing down the front of Marc's shirt, "but I'm happy for you." Behind him, Marc can see Coots loosening his tie enough to get it over his head, then putting it on Claude. It's a little long since Claude isn't exactly tall comparatively, but he doesn't seem to have noticed yet. 

"I thought it might be too soon when you told us, but I guess… I guess it isn't, is it?" Sid asks, following his gaze. Claude is fending off TK, who keeps trying to mess with his hair, and he's still got gutter grime on his shirt from where he cleaned off the ring, and he's literally the most ridiculous person Marc knows. Claude catches them looking and rolls his eyes, but there's something bright and pleased in the set of his mouth. 

"Yeah," Marc says. His throat feels tight, and though he flips Claude off, there's something huge expanding in his chest. It isn't fear, though. Maybe a bit, but not all. He's swamped by the future, stretching out from every moment that passed before, from Vegas to Philly to here, and Marc's _so glad_ they made it here. 

"You're going to make each other very happy," Sid says quietly. "I know you already do." 

"Stop making me cry, asshole," Marc chokes out. Sid reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, hard, before letting go. 

They stand side-by-side, looking out over the parking lot and all the spaces that have been filled by the people who care about him and Claude, while Marc pulls himself together. Sid is one of his oldest and best friends, and Marc doesn't need his blessing but he's glad he's here, glad that he's happy for them. 

"Hey," he hears Claude say from behind him, and Marc takes a breath, scrubs his hand over his eyes, and turns. 

"Hey," he says. He has to clear his throat to get the word out. Sid has stepped away to give them space, and Marc can see him herding people toward the double doors of the building. 

"Cold feet?" Claude asks, moving closer like he can block out everything else that's happening. He cups Marc's cheek and brushes a thumb over the skin beneath Marc's eye. Claude's got crows' feet deepening, and Marc had listened to him complain about the silver hair he'd found in his beard for a solid week. They aren't old, but god, they aren't getting any younger. 

"No," he says truthfully, pressing a hand over Claude's. "You want me to say yes again?" 

"Maybe later," Claude promises, then kisses him, sweet as anything. Someone wolf whistles, but Marc ignores it. He's had plenty of experience.

He keeps his eyes closed after Claude breaks the kiss, and Claude bumps their foreheads gently together, curls an arm around Marc's waist. Marc has grown so used to how physically demonstrative Claude is that he doesn't even register it anymore, but sometimes it catches him off guard all over again. 

"Come on," Claude says, still pressed close. "Let's go eat cake pops, huh? I've seen Croz eat, we might not get any if he gets there first." 

"You ordered cake pops for our engagement party?" Marc asks, finally opening his eyes. He feels steadier now that he has something to rib Claude about. "I didn't realize this was actually a child's birthday party." 

"You love cake pops, don't front," Claude says, pulling back far enough that Marc can keep him in focus. 

"Don't _front_?" Marc asks. "I think you've been hanging out with TK too much." 

"I'm youthful at heart," Claude says, then sticks his hand in the pocket of Marc's jeans. 

Almost everyone else has trickled into the building by now, but there's a tiny asian woman in a button-down and tie standing by the entrance. Marc can't place her for a minute until she says, "Mr. Fleury?" looking between Claude and Marc, and he finally puts the pieces together.

"Oh, that's me. This is the lady from the band," Marc says to Claude. "Go ahead, I'll be right behind you." 

Marc can't tell if Claude wants to tell him not to bail or not, but he does pinch Marc's ass before taking his hand out of his pocket. "I'll save you a cake pop," he says, then nods at the woman and disappears inside. 

"Mia Lee," she introduces herself, shaking Marc's hand. "Congratulations to you and your fiancé." 

"My husband, actually," Marc says, smiling as he glances over her shoulder to where Claude's disappeared. "But thanks." It's the first time he's gotten to say it to a stranger, and maybe it's weird when they're sort of in between weddings, but he doesn't care. 

"Wonderful!" Mia says. "I know you said you wanted us to play country, is that still the plan?" 

"Kind of," Marc says. "Can you play something everyone can dance to? They don't have to be slow, but stick a couple in there at the end. Modern, country, oldies, whatever. Dealer's choice." 

Mia grins at him, her lip ring flashing. "Absolutely. If you think of anything you want to request, just say so. We're pretty versatile." 

She holds the door for him, then heads back to where the rest of the band is setting up their equipment. Marc makes his way over to the bar, where Tanger and Claude appear to be doing shots—none of them neon, thank god. 

"Did you know that Giroux can't tie a cherry stem with his tongue?" is the first thing out of Tanger's mouth when Marc sits down. 

"Hey, I'm good with my tongue in other ways," Claude leers. Marc manfully resists the urge to tell Tanger about the time Claude had accidentally _swallowed_ a cherry stem trying to win a bet. He has the video on his phone somewhere, he'll just show him later. 

"You aren't going to start calling him Claude, now that he's my husband?" Marc says instead, more interested in poking at Claude and Tanger's weird frenemies relationship than making them call each other by their first names. It's pretty much tradition at this point. 

Tanger snorts. "As soon as he starts calling me Kris," he says, but there's no heat in his voice.

"Hey, _Kris_ ," Claude purrs, and Tanger almost does a spit-take. "Get Marc-Andre a drink, will you?" and Marc cackles at Tanger's expression. 

"You two deserve each other," Tanger tells them, sliding a shot over to him. 

Marc downs it and grins. "You know it." 

He and Claude talk with Tanger for a bit, then make the rounds, saying hello to everyone who's shown up. It's nice, having their friends here, even if they keep getting congratulated on either their marriage or their engagement, which Claude finds hilarious. The dance floor is slowly starting to fill up, and Marc watches Danny whirl by with his wife, the two of them obviously having a blast. 

"Want to?" he asks, nudging Claude with an elbow. Danny winks as he goes past.

"Cake pops first," Claude tells him, and drags him over to where the food is set up. 

Marc finally gets Claude on the dance floor when the band plays Thank God I'm A Country Boy, which Marc had made sure to ask for. The band itself is a motley assortment of instruments, from keyboard to violin to steel guitar, but it sounds wonderful. They have the equipment to DJ later, but for now Marc is content with live music and Claude's best moves. 

They dance through a couple of 80's songs, and behind Claude, Marc catches snatches of their friends—Sid talking with Danny, and a bunch of the French guys gesturing wildly, and Belly laughing. Maybe it should make him nostalgic for the places he's been before, for the _people_ he's been before, but it just fills him with a warm contentment. 

"So, I think we can safely say my proposal was better," he says to Claude when the band begins playing Cotton-Eyed Joe and Marc finds he can't resist the temptation anymore. 

"What are you talking about?" Claude asks, squinting at him. "What proposal?" 

"My proposal," he says, like it's obvious. "In Vegas? It was definitely better than yours."

"You're such an idiot," Claude says, tugging him closer as the tempo increases. "I'm the one who remembers the proposal! You can't say yours is better when you were fucking blackout." 

"I mean, how much worse could it be?" Marc asks, spinning them past TK and Nolan, who appear to be moshing. "I've got drainage slime on my finger." 

Claude is shaking with laughter, but his voice is almost steady when he gets out, "I ended up in the fountain in the middle of the square. You _pushed me_ into the fountain."

"I did not!"

"You did too! Why do you think my clothes were hanging on the shower rod?" 

Marc doesn't have an answer for that. But, well. "You probably fell in, I was just helping you out. Like a proper gentleman," he adds pointedly. 

Claude gives up and starts laughing, his head thrown back toward the vaulted ceiling even as he tries to step on Marc's feet. 

"I take it back," he says. "The wedding is off, give me back my ring." 

"It's mine now, no take-backs," Marc tells him. "And good luck with that. Some asshole crammed it on my finger, I think I'm going to have to have it surgically removed," and Claude only stops trying to squish his toes when they bump into Duper. 

They dance to the rest of the song in relative peace, and Marc steps back as it fades out. "Do you want to grab something to eat?" he asks. "There's probably some cake pops left." 

Claude shakes his head. "I think you're going to want to stick around for this one," he says, nodding over at the band. A guy who looks like Matty—or what Matty would look like if he was Indian and could play the violin—gives Claude a thumbs up and taps the keyboardist on her shoulder. She starts to play, and Marc knows before the first measure is even over that it's Dancing in the Dark.

"You hate Springsteen," he says blankly, looking at Claude. "You _hate_ Springsteen." 

"Yeah, well, my husband doesn't," Claude tells him, looking pleased with himself. "No accounting for taste." Then he grins and holds out a hand, and Marc can feel the beat of the music thundering behind his ribs as the rest of the instruments come in. "I'm leading, though." 

Maybe Marc should be thinking about their wedding and whose turn it will be to lead then, or the fact that he's taller by a not-insignificant number of inches, or how he doesn't know the steps backward. He's not thinking about any of that, though. Claude's bicep is warm and firm under his hand, and his eyes are a lovely blue-gray in this light, and Marc would _square dance_ with him if that's what he wanted. He'd laugh at him about it later, but he'd do it. 

Claude spins him around, his hand sure on Marc's waist, then attempts to dip him. Marc tightens his hold and lets him. 

"You can't start a fire without a spark," croons the woman who'd met them at the door, and Marc catches sight of Tanger with his phone out, alongside Sid and Wayne and a bunch of the other guys. He's going to be getting the video from this for every month for the rest of his life, he just knows it. 

He tugs Claude closer and hides his grin in his neck. 

He can't wait. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [dreamwidth](https://enter-remiges.dreamwidth.org/), where I post fic extras and yell about various things! I'm also on [tumblr](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/).


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